Kirschsaft
by Nariel
Summary: 1938. Hugo Stiglitz and his best friend from childhood days, Dieter Hellstrom, share a rare, peaceful night. Slash warning: is warned. SLASH. There.


**Disclaimer:** Linndechir for inappropriate romantic notions between nazis; QT for said nazis.  
**Author:** Nariel  
**Rating:** PG-13 for naked Nazis.  
WARNING: SLASH as in illicit gay=homosexual relations. Stiglitz/Hellstrom.

**Summary:** 1938. Hugo Stiglitz and his best friend from childhood days, Dieter Hellstrom, share a rare, peaceful night.

For Linndechir , who fangirls Stiglitz/Hellstrom. As we were discussing the UST between Hugo (motherfucker) Stiglitz and Sturmbannführer Dieter Hellstrom, she came up with the idea that it wasn't just a one-time rape and torture thing, but that they were childhood friends and had once a loving relationship (and Nazi porn). And that things only went bad when they grew up. For now, enjoy the fluff.

* * *

Kirschsaft

1938

It is one of their better nights. It is devoid of long rambles on the wrongness of their relations, on dangers of fraternization and betrayal of their homeland and people, devoid of rough, frantic coupling, either preceded or followed by violence. For once, his best friend's mind seems to be at peace. A great part of his ever-present tension is discarded with his uniform, which is always a reminder of their different positions in society. Without its numerous implications, he is just a man; paler, quieter, less carefree, but still his best friend Dieter, with whom he had shared room, thought and heart, back in boarding school.

They both had changed a great deal in the last ten years. Hugo had grown from a gangly, awkward school boy into a tall, strong man, straight from a propaganda poster, down to blond hair, blue eyes, and an uncompromising fierceness. His friend had changed less, at the first glance – his face was still all boyish beauty, the kind to make ancient Greeks swoon and flutter, and it retained its sweet smile that often made people forget he was actually as tall as his imposing sidekick. He had developed several new smiles, however; frightening ones. And a screen of ice for his eyes, that hid them more often than not, an Arctic Ocean, always frozen but for a few rare summer days.

This is one of those, and Hugo is in heaven – or so he feels, grinning from ear to ear, as there is no reason to restrain his joy. There are no witnesses, nobody to interrupt them in the middle of this winter night. Dieter's apartment is always a hint colder than pleasant, but they have a blanket, and each other's body heat. Not to forget the mind-shattering pleasure, drugging them like hard liquor.

Hugo's arms tighten around the other man, and he is thinking: "Mine. Mine alone." Nobody else gets to see ever-serious Untersturmführer Hellstrom stripped of all acts and cunning pretenses, relaxed and sated and happy – God, he looks happy, Hugo thinks and feels the odd urge to do an undignified little dance. This is the smile from Dieter's untarnished youth, proof that the man he loves desperately is still in there, somehow. It is becoming more and more rare, and recently he started to fear never seeing it again.

"That was wonderful," Hugo whispers, not missing the opportunity to bestow little kisses upon his friend's neck and ear, stretching to reach the corner of his soft mouth and lingering there, feeling it curl up in a smile.

Silky hair tickles his cheek as his lover nods a yes, "...like cherry juice..." The mumble is barely audible.

Hugo lets out a small chuckle of delight. It is, to him, the most adorable habit he ever came across. On the edge of sleep, his friend will occasionally utter entirely random things as an answer, quite unrelated to the question raised. Years ago, so late in the night it had been early in the morning, his opinion on some political communist atrocity had been expressed in a sincerely embarrassed voice: "But I don't know how to bake bread..." Hugo was prone to giggling, outright girlish giggling anytime he remembered. Granted, they'd been 14 years old. And Dieter had sworn to court-martial his ass if word ever got out. But Hugo would never divulge their secrets. To anyone. Not until 1962, a star-lit moonless night in the middle of a cornfield in Tennessee, in a distant, absurd future.

Right now, Hugo doesn't even know whether Tennessee is a city or a state, nor does he give a damn. "Are you comparing me to cherry juice?" he asks, adoring mirth in his voice.

Slitted eyes open to reveal swirling pools of dark blue. "Hmm. It made me think of cherry juice."

"I... our... being together made you think of cherry juice?" Hugo hesitates, choosing the best way to phrase it. The wrong words have proven disastrous too often, sparking a temper you wouldn't suspect – until it ran you over.

"Yes," Dieter says again, smiling serenely, still perfectly relaxed and happy under his caress. He hasn't tensed up, thank God, not even for a moment, and Hugo would've felt that, lying so close, still inside him. Skin on skin, it is as if they become one being, one love, as they were meant to be. Their hands entwine, and Hugo's hand trembles, all too conscious of his power to crush these elegant long fingers into a pulp of bruised flesh and bone fragments. It is too easy, he knows, having done it before, to others. Shivering, he places another kiss on his friend's ear.

"Cherry juice," he whispers, playfully, though his disappointment is real. "Gee, thanks."

"Just like that, yes."

Hugo snorts.

"Cherry juice on a hot summer day. Expensive, decadent, and the best thing you can imagine..."

Hugo can imagine better things. "It's February," he remarks, matter of fact.

"I was thinking of our summers, when we still were in school. You visited me over holidays, for a month. Remember?"

Long, lazy days of horse-riding, hiking, always to one lake or another, swimming naked and lying together in green grass, drying under the noon sun, never letting the other out of sight. It had been perfect, a paradise. The last summer of their innocence. You bet he remembers the best month of his life. Hugo nods, and inhales the scent of his hair, almost smelling the grass stalks and evaporating lake water.

"We'd lie in the grass, watch the sky for hours, and I was thinking about cherry juice, how it was the only thing missing from making that day perfect."

"You're serious?"

Nod. "A glass of cold cherry juice. We can't get any closer to perfect happiness."

It is ridiculous to be jealous of a beverage, but Hugo can't help it. "That what you need?" he asks, playfulness concealing his hurt poorly. "That's what you're wishing for, right now?" His heart seizes at the answering smile, luminous in its warmth, love even.

"That's the point, you. Understand," the pliant body twists in Hugo's arms, to face him; one leg slides between his, and cool hands frame his face, capturing his gaze irresistibly. He knows this feeling of being under a spell very well, by now, and resistance is futile. "If all I can wish for, in this precise moment, is a glass of cherry juice, have I not reached perfect happiness already?"

"Huh?" Hugo asks, intelligently. He sees the Stupid Enlisted Men vs. Smart Officers jokes coming.

"If all I can wish for," Dieter reiterates, still smiling lovingly, "while being with you, is something so trivial as a glass of cherry juice – then I am truly happy, no?"

"And you need cherry juice to be happy?" Hugo frowns, painfully feeling his inability to hold metaphysical discussions. He just doesn't do talking. "Am I not enough for you, you can't go without stupid cherry juice?"  
It is impossible to be angry, when he looks at you like that.

"That's what I'm trying to get across, silly." Hugo opens his mouth to protest, and a slim finger presses against his lips, snuffing out his protest. "I _can _go without cherry juice. And while I imagine it to be delicious, it does not lessen my happiness one bit. I can wish for nothing else but a glass for cherry juice, since all my other wishes, anything I could ever want – I have it." His hand caresses Hugo's short hair, which stubbornly curls, defying regulations. "I have you."

Hugo swallows, and his heart seizes again, painfully, but it is a pain of bliss. This feeling is always prevalent between them, an attraction so strong it hurts, it hurts terribly, torturing them – yet they cannot stop. Oh, they try, Dieter especially, only to cave in the next day, and fall even deeper. One day they will reach the ground – and smash, but not yet, not today... Today there is still a place for happiness.

"I'm all you could ever want?" Hugo asks, just to be sure. "What about that promotion you've been going on about?"

Again, the finger on his lips silences him. Dieter smirks, and it's a smirk of the present, one to be seen in daylight, over the black coat's leather collar.

"I'll get it," he states, confidently. "I can get anything I want in this world. Even our homeland's supremacy is within reach, but you..." Again, he is that boy only Hugo ever gets to see, beneath the strong iron façade of the officer. "You, I need." His voice breaks, and his hands clutch at Hugo's hair, pulling him closer. "Need you..."

Hugo complies, without a thought, only driven by an answering need, kisses him, and thank God, Dieter is kissing him back, just as desperately, wildly, unrestrained, and his pale lips will be a hint redder tomorrow if he keeps this up, and nobody will know but him. Their tongues are caressing each other, mimicking their naked bodies pressing together, and this is perversion and a shame on both of them _and _the SS _and _the Gestapo _and _their families and until morning, they don't give a shit.

In the light of day, their happiness will fade like the fragile sculptures of frost. Untersturmführer Hellstrom will get dressed, and pretend nothing happened last night, and they are just old childhood friends, whose relations have to adhere to their respective ranks. And Hugo will play along – maybe. Maybe not. What's one more mark of insubordination in his file?

For now, they are happy in their brief freedom, and relish their closeness, saying what they always say, when lying in each others arms. The words haven't changed since they were fourteen.

"Hab dich lieb."

* * *

**Afterword**: "Hab dich lieb" is a curious little German expression. Essentially, it's "I love you", but not the same. It has an extremely strong platonic connotation. It is used between parents and children, siblings, good friends, and is quite non-sexual, being closer to "I like you", but it's not a vague liking, but a friendship that may be stronger than the trite and dramatic "I love you." It is also said between lovers. But, of course, if friends say that to each other, nobody bats an eyelash. Not even in Nazi Germany. (As long as they aren't skipping along the street holding hands.) It is something two best friends say while lying together on a green meadow on a beautiful summer day, and their friendship is quite pure. But the meaning alters quite subtly over the years, slowly, until these words, repeated, become more meaningful than "Ich liebe dich." Cue sexual tension.  
As long as they don't actually say "I love you", but this, which conveys an even stronger feeling, of love AND friendship together, they can pretend it is only friendship. Oh, the flimsy excuses to keep one's sanity...  
Just to prevent confusion: Dieter Hellstrom is the guy swinging the whip in that flashback shot, the Gestapo Major in La Louisiana, sitting down next to Hugo and pretending not to know him (having Balls Of Steel™, as futureperfect over at LJ put it), because he wants to know whether the other people at the table actually are enemies or not. Could be just Stiglitz infiltrating the German army, right? Then he confirms the Englishman, and two out of three... well.  
There was also the theory that that whipping shot was merely an illustration of Hugo's discomfort at sitting next to a Gestapo Major, and not something that actually happened; valid, yes, but, for sake of the story, I go the other way.  
And OF COURSE I had to allude to Aldo Raine. 3


End file.
